VICTOR VAL MAS Y11 In this piece of descriptive writing I try to show two sides of the fourth of July.

One side is cheerful, joyful and very hot. Then I switch gears and try to depict the feeling of shock I experienced while seeing my neighbor getting shot. I based this on the beltway sniper incident. This was a terrifying time I experienced when, in 2002, a man killed 10 people including my neighbor James Buchanan. He was killed whilst mowing his grass in Rockville, Maryland.
Descriptive writing

FROZEN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY Any ordinary year, the Fourth of July would be one of those days that no one would miss. One would do everything imaginable to be in town for this special occasion. If this meant giving up a week at the beach there would be no hesitation. Everyone had to be there; it was a red-letter day! This year, however, things would be different. I woke up to the gentle churning of the air conditioner. Still relaxed from a good nights sleep, my eyelashes were covered by a gritty, dusty substance that clung to my eyelids like dried up glue left on a desk. I rubbed my eyes, moving my fingers in circles, trying to wiggle them awake. Standing up, I felt my blood rush to my feet. My head suddenly became weightless and my sight distorted. I decided to lie back down still attached to the comfort of my blanket. The blanket was warm from the previous nights sleep, and the pillow seemed to have memorized the shape of my head. I then tried to get up. This time, my blood seemed to stay in place and my vision cleared. Looking outside I decide to open the window. The knob slowly turned with a squeak, engraving a white mark on my fingers from the pressure I had applied. Then, instantly, a blast of hot air hit me. The feeling I experienced was very strange. On one side my body was cold; this must have been because of the air conditioning vent on the floor behind me. The front of my torso however, was burning and almost scorching. I felt my skin start to sweat and my veins start to swell. I could feel the blood traveling around my body, pulsing like the ticks on my watch. It was as if I were split in two; as if I were two separate people, with two different sensations. This same feeling I would soon experience again. Only then it would be much worse. The day had gone smoothly and I reflected on the hours that had just passed. The parade was wonderful; all one could see was a mass of red, white and blue. In the front, a glamorous fire truck that one could tell was being driven with pride lead the way. On it were ribbons and flags. These, held securely by the small hands of smiling preschoolers, glittered in the air. This was no ordinary occasion for the satisfied preschoolers. They had left their play dough and had chosen to ride on the fire engine. Their smiles were wide and their eyes full of delight. Not a single cry could be heard. All that could be heard was loud chatter and the sirens of the engine leading the way. Behind it, a mass of people were jubilantly following the truck, like ducklings trailing their mother. As I was perspiring profusely in the sizzling July sun, I decided to take a shower, ice-cold. My skin contracted after a whole day exposed to the sun. The cold water dripped down my body, washing away all the sweat and tattoos I had stamped all over my back. The paint was hard to get off. I had to rub with the sponge, squeezing and pressing as hard as I could. Slowly, the stripe of the flag began to fade and chunks of star started peeling and wrinkling on my skin.

VICTOR VAL MAS Y11 After hitting the shower, I walked outside to see if any friends were lurking locally. I was on my way down the steps when I noticed a buzz. This noise was easily distinguished from the high pitched chirping of the crickets that overpopulated my lawn. They lived between the thickness of the grass and under the vibrant green leaves of the bushes. The crickets, however, did not bother me. Ignoring the noise, I walked past the telephone pole to the car, a wooden log whose age could be judged not by its rings but by the layers of staples that had been embedded in it. All the papers that had decorated it had left their mark, sometimes even covering each other, while fighting for the precious space that so many others had occupied. I crossed the road and stepped over the curve, a curve battered by the snow plows of the past winter. Pieces of granite chipped off by the tremendous force of the plow were still scattered across the drainage pipe. These, too strong to be swept away by the power of the rainfall, had been the cause of several ripped jeans and sore bottoms over the past few weeks. Then I saw it, a blur of white approaching me. At first I saw it drifting across, taking a turn into my street. It emitted a squeak and smoke buffeted out of the exhaust tube. I started smelling burnt rubber; my nose started itching and I coughed trying not to inhale the ghastly fumes. I stood still, paralyzed, astounded by the reckless driving. My eyes locked on the car as it accelerated across Rockville Boulevard and stopped at the red light. The car, a white minivan, did not seem out of the ordinary. However, the way it was driven stunned me. Without blinking once I stood there astounded, trying to see through the dust and smoke. My mouth hung open, engulfed in haze; I tasted the acid and grisly particles that seemed to have spewed out of the van. After semi-recovering from the shock, I took a look around. Just one street light away I saw my neighbor James Buchanan, mowing the grass in front of Fitzgeralds auto store. The continuous cacophonous roaring of the lawn mower was what must have been annoying me barely minutes before. James, known as Sonny around the neighborhood, always wore a pale yellow overall. As he sat on his lawn tractor above everyone, I could clearly recognize him. There he was sitting straight, and mowing the grass in immaculately straight lines. Behind him, Fritzs auto shop was buzzing with life. Men came in and out, all passionately devoted to their cars. Everyone there was always in high spirits tending to their customers in the most courteous manner. The red light turned green. The van started to accelerate. I could hear the nuts and bolts rubbing and rustling inside the engine, barely holding together, and ready to burn out. Then my eardrum cracked; an overpowering blast, like thunder booming into my ear. I felt the flesh pop and the warm blood rushing out onto my ear. I looked up and saw a lawn mower moving helplessly down the road. Next to it, on the pavement the yellow silhouette of a man I had known as Sonny. The white van driven by the murderer had suddenly gone absent. My right ear was warmed by my blood, and my left, numbed with fright. I heard sirens, flashes of red, white and blue. There I stood, frozen on the Fourth of July.